


Shotgun Shuts His Cakehole

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Collars, Gen, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, No Sex, Object Penetration, Possessive Dean Winchester, Spanking, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3369416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been six months since he let Lucifer out. Six months since the first time he shut up at Dean’s say-so, three since he started dropping his head at the little daily commands. Get in the car. Pack your crap. Don’t forget my pie, bitch. Since he started asking for things he used to claim. Going to the bathroom. Taking a walk. Putting on his own damn boxers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shotgun Shuts His Cakehole

**Author's Note:**

> de-anoning from [this post](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/89743.html?thread=35310479#t35310479) on the spn kink meme.

The radio switches off.

Sam takes a deep breath. Disaster after disaster, and they’re all his fault. “Dean,” he starts.

“Don’t say anything,” Dean says.

\----

Sam tries. He tries leaving; he tries coming back. He’s on probation either way, never knowing where he stands. Never knowing what Dean thinks, what he wants. Never knowing what to do.

In Canton, as they’re leaving, he gives up and tells Dean he needs this fixed or over. Asks him how long things are gonna be this way.

“Till I say so,” says Dean. “Next time I let the Devil out of hell, you can call the shots. So pack your crap, dude.”

Sam packs, fast and tidy. He deserves this, he thinks, and Dean can’t punish him as much as he’s punishing himself.

“God, Sam,” says Dean, “ten minutes ago.”

Sam stuffs in the last of his things and picks up his bags. “Uh, I gotta piss. Can I—”

“No,” says Dean. “Get in the car.”

Sam gets in the car.

\----

They pull off for gas four hours later. “Do we have time—” Sam starts, but Dean’s already rushing to fill up the tank.

Sam gets out. He’s got to go.

“Hey!”

It’s Dean, calling after him. Sam turns around.

“Bathroom,” Sam says.

“No time,” says Dean.

Sam gets back in the car.

\----                                                                                                                        

Sam’s lying on the bed, naked and spread-eagled and tense as hell. The shower’s running in the bathroom, trickling noises eating away at his brain. He clenches the muscles across his abdomen. If he pisses himself while Dean’s in the shower, Dean’ll be so mad at him. Dean’s already so mad. Always, always mad.

It’s been six months since he let Lucifer out. Six months since the first time he shut up at Dean’s say-so, three since he started dropping his head at the little daily commands. Get in the car. Pack your crap. Don’t forget my pie, bitch. Since he started asking for things he used to claim. Going to the bathroom. Taking a walk. Putting on his own damn boxers.

Dean’s still mad.

But he’s not quite as mad, Sam thinks, and so he goes with it, doesn’t back out. Not even when he ends up like this, tied up on the bed ready to beg for Dean’s permission to wet himself.

The shower turns off, and Sam releases a bit of his mental control—almost too much, almost, but he catches himself. And then Dean comes out.

“Heya, Sammy,” he says. “Got something for you.”

He holds up both hands. One’s got a bottle of water, and Sam swallows apprehensively. The other is holding Sam’s toothbrush.

“You gonna drink this up for me?” Dean asks, waving the water bottle.

Sam swallows again. Nods.

“Good,” says Dean. “Cause I’d hate to make you.”

Sam never makes Dean make him, not anymore. How’s Dean ever going to trust him with big stuff if he can’t trust him to drink a bottle of water?

Dean uncaps the bottle of water, crosses over to Sam’s bed. But then he pauses and puts it down on the nightstand. “Forgot,” he says, and he holds up the toothbrush.

Without warning he’s shoving the handle up Sam’s ass. It’s sharp and cold and Sam can’t stretch to let it in because he’s got to make sure he doesn’t piss in Dean’s face. He’s already so full, cramps starting to spread through his gut, and now he’s got his own damn toothbrush in his ass and he’ll probably piss on it. And he’ll have to use it after, or else ask Dean for a new one—

He tenses up and tries to hold it better. To be better. But if he isn’t, well. A little urine on his toothbrush isn’t so disgusting as drinking the blood of demons, and he chose that. He deserves this.

Dean’s leaning over him now with the bottle of water. Sam opens his mouth obediently and gulps as Dean pours. He feels it pulsing cold and clear all the way down to his bladder, imagines it washing him clean of Ruby’s blood.

The cramps start spreading fast, around to his lower back, and he closes his eyes and breathes.

Dean’s purging him. Dean’s making him clean, making him trustworthy, keeping him human.

But it hurts, oh God, it hurts so bad. He just wants to know how long he’ll have to wait, how long before he can even beg. He doesn’t have permission to speak right now. If he says a word, he’s risking his ass, and Dean’s come through every time so far.

Dean pokes him in the side, right where Sam’s most ticklish, and he seizes up. Damn it, this isn’t funny.

“What,” says Dean, “you gonna piss yourself?” He reaches for the toothbrush, stabs it in a little further, and then he leans over Sam with one hand firmly planted on his stomach. “Gotta learn to control your urges, Sam. Just cause you want something doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”

Sam’s gasping from the pressure, struggling so hard for self-control. It’s true, though, he thinks, what Dean’s saying. If he can’t control his damn bladder, he’s not gonna be able to resist the blood next time they fight a demon. He has to get stronger. He has to be better.

But his back is buckling now, trying to fight the cramps, and he’s straining at the ropes so he can press his legs together. He can’t take this much longer. He can’t. He’s not there yet.

He looks up at Dean’s face, bites back the pleas—

Dean snaps his fingers. “Beg.”

The words spill out. “Please, I need to go; it hurts and I can’t do it, I can’t, I’m sorry, please let me.”

“Please let you what?”

Sam swallows. “Please let me piss on myself.”

Dean shakes his head. “Dude, you know how gross that is, right?”

“I know,” Sam pleads. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m trying not to but I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

Dean opens his mouth. Shuts it again. Then he shakes his head and looks at his watch. “Five more minutes.”

Sam tries. He tries so, so hard. Counts in his head really super slow, tells himself he can make it. But he’s only counted around two minutes when the cramps get so bad he can’t keep track, and he tries to shift a little to ease the pressure.

He leaks.

It stains the bedspread under him and he knows Dean sees it, knows he’s gonna get a beatdown for this. But Dean doesn’t say anything, which means Sam has to keep holding.

It feels like forever that he waits, a lifetime of pressure and pain and self-control. Another spurt leaks out, filling him with shame and dread. Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just stands there staring at his watch.

Eventually it tears from him, even though he knows he’s not supposed to beg now. “Dean. Please, Dean.”

Nothing. Sam counts. One. Two. Three.

Ten long seconds, and Dean snaps his fingers again. Sam hardly has to move and everything floods out in a fierce stream. It drenches the covers, pooling around his ass and thighs.

He used to release as little as he could, waiting to use the toilet after, but Dean caught onto that and started nonstop control for a while. Sam’s no less ashamed, now, but he obeys. He forces every last drop. His toothbrush turns in his ass as he clenches, ending up bristles-down on the bed. It soaks in his urine.

He’ll put it in his mouth tonight. Maybe he won’t even rinse it. Remind himself how filthy he is, how tainted.

“You done?” Dean asks. His voice is hard.

Sam nods.

“Okay,” says Dean. He starts undoing the restraints. “Bend over the bed. And if you try to avoid that wet spot, I’ll fill you up again, you hear me?”

Sam rises slowly. The cramps are still there—less intense, but promising to stick around through the night. He bends over and puts his face directly in the wet spot, half a stain and half a puddle.

Dean shoves the toothbrush further in again. “No rinsing that,” he says. “Now, two leaks and talking out of turn. What do you think that gets, Sam?”

“It’s your choice,” Sam whispers. Sam’s bad at choices.

“Damn straight,” says Dean. “But you tell me first. What d’you think you earned, here?”

Sam breathes deep. “The paddle,” he says, at last. They’re leaving town tomorrow, heading clear across the country, and the paddle bruises deep.

He hears Dean rummaging around in a duffel bag. It’s the paddle, all right; before long it’s cracking down on his ass like there’s no tomorrow—which there may not be, and if there isn’t that’s on Sam. He grips the covers and takes it, even though every lick is hard enough to be a punishment in itself. By the time it’s over, the pain is blurring his world and Sam’s not sure if the wetness on his face is urine or tears.

“Knees,” says Dean.

Not daring to wipe his face, Sam slides off the bed onto his knees. But Dean’s got a towel nearby and he uses it gently, drying Sam’s forehead and cheeks and nose.

“Couple more things,” he says.

Sam swallows, but he waits.

“You take off that wet comforter. Sleep in the sheets, wet or not. Shower in the morning, but you can wash your face and hands tonight. Brush your teeth, too. Tomorrow, free reign on toilets. Don’t even need to ask.” He smirks. “You’ll have enough to think about with the state of your ass.”

Sam smiles back, a little. It’s not funny, but Dean’s being nice. Sam disobeyed three times in a row; sometimes he’d feel the effects of that for weeks.

“And one last thing,” says Dean.

He reaches for something on the nightstand. It’s a black leather choker necklace with a silver ring on the front.

A collar, Sam realizes.

“I want you to remember,” Dean says. “Want you to feel this on you and know, okay? I’m looking out for you. That’s—I’m just trying to watch out for you, Sammy. Cause it’s my job, and cause, well, you’re shit at looking after yourself.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but he kneels there with his piss-stained toothbrush in his bruised ass and he lifts his chin, waiting for Dean to fasten the collar around his neck. It’s snug and controlling and he hates the feel of it, but he tells himself: this is how to be safe. This is how to be better.

He knows it’s the only way. And he hopes Dean knows he knows.


End file.
